Bad, bad creative Irken!
by Rethtales
Summary: The tale of the rebellion of Per, aka Lore, a defective who has a wild imagination and loads of artistic talent. Fun, drama, and space pirates. Rated for language & violence. Some romance, but not involving Per, just other OCs.
1. Mopping and Moping

The sun has set, but the brilliant glow of Conventia's millions of lights blot out the stars. I look up, hoping to catch a glimpse of a ship passing. They at least look something like stars. But Conventia is closed this week, and nothing shines in the sky. I sigh and slosh my mop around in its bucket before squeezing it out and slapping it onto the pink tiles of the walkway. As usual, I can see no dirt on them, but I have to mop them anyway, in case of germs.

A few strokes and I dip the mop again, into the microbe-killing solution that fizzles and foams like . . . like the soda-cream fountain in the winners' room at the Invader trials. That cascading soda looks so delicious, but I will never be allowed to taste it. They say I don't have the right mentality to destroy a planet. Instead, I'm a member of Mop Unit 7. No advanced military training, no title, never even a _chance_ to hear someone call me Invader Per. Just a mop and a bucket and the rest of my near-endless life.

It gives one time to think, something I both love and hate. As far as the Empire is concerned, I'm just another green-eyed female, twenty marks in height — not short, but not quite tall enough to command respect. That doesn't matter much when I'm alone. My mind can wander the galaxy, reliving the stories of Skoodge and his conquest of Blorch, Tenn and the miswired SIRs, Zim the Defective, and the tales of the great Tallests of the past. I love imagining the comforts of the Couch or . . . what if I met Zim?

_I knock on his door, disguised as a native creature. He answers, his defective SIR bouncing around the room behind him._

_"What do you want, Earth female?"_

_"I'm not an Earth female," I say as I drop my disguise. He stands, stunned, for a moment._

_"Bow before ZIIIM!" he commands. Not wanting to anger him, I do._

_He orders me to clean up his base. _

_"But Zim," I say, "The Tallest sent me to help you conquer the planet." This is not true, but I don't care._

_"Help Zim? Zim needs no help, foolish smeetling!" He glares up at me. I must be nearly twice his height. "Now go back to whatever dirtball planet you came from!"_

"Per! Quit standing there like a busted robot!" I jump, my reverie shattered, and turn to face Fipe, my supervisor. He's a skinny creature, a bit shorter than me and purple-eyed.

"Sorry," I mutter submissively as I squeeze out the mop and start cleaning the floor again.

"If this happens again, I'm putting you up for an EET. You're acting too defective," Fipe says, coming over to check my work. His threat hardly fazes me anymore. I know how many EET requests I have registered against me, and the number hasn't gone up since he started saying he'd report me six months ago.

"Looks okay," he says, and his spider legs unfold and carry him off to check on someone else. I look around. Only four more large squares of tile to go. I can finish in a few minutes if I hurry. That means sloshing some extra cleaner on the floor, but it'll dry before Fipe comes back to check it.

* * *

Back in the Mop Unit headquarters, I find a quiet corner and sit down to think. I have to find some way to get rid of these thoughts, the images and scenes that constantly jump into my mind. I could try to get them programmed out, but that would probably result in me being declared defective, and besides, I like them. They just can't stay stuck in my mind forever or I'll go insane. When I was young and something wouldn't go away, I could tell another smeet or scratch it on the wall or something and it would quit. Now, though . . . If I mar the walls at all, I'll be sent to Planet Dirt, where they don't give workers any time off. If I tell anyone, they'll put in an EET request, and I can't afford any more. Wish I knew how Zim drove the Control Brains crazy at his EET. Maybe I could manage something similar. . .

"Per, come quick! There's another raid happening!" Walet says excitedly, grabbing me by the arm and practically dragging me down the hall toward the main room where the huge transmission screen is.

"So there have been raids for the past two years. Why is this one a big deal?" I ask, trying to free my arm from his claws.

He opens the door and the announcer's voice floods into the hall. "We bring you continuing coverage of the raid on the Irken military training planet of Devastis. To recap, the mysterious black ship whose appearance has preceded each raid uncloaked for several minutes in orbit of Devastis, during which time it fired a cannon sweep that knocked out the power to the entire planet. The surface is in mass confusion, with battery power the only source of energy to fuel the battle against the raiders. No one knows when they will come."

"I bet it's Zim," someone says from just inside the doorway. I step inside to see Fipe talking with Yall. Fipe continues, "I mean, no other race could come up with technology like that, whoever's in it has obviously been to Devastis before, and only a defective would even think of doing something like that."

"Besides," Yall says, "he'd try to destroy anyone who stole his calling card. A power outage is just a big 'Zim was here' sign, really."

"Exactly," says Fipe. I roll my eyes. A power outage is an effective method of confusing one's enemy and giving yourself a strong strategic advantage. No wonder these two are cleaning drones. Then again, I am too, but I, at least, refuse to accept it as my only purpose in life.


	2. They're Here!

"It's now two hours since the black-ship raiders launched their brutal attack on Devastis, and no fighting has broken out on the planet itself." The announcer's voice is tense. I'm not anymore. I've been sitting here for an hour watching flickering lights in the streets of Devastis. Most of it is ugly crap, but occasionally I see a shot I wish they'd replay. Of course, they never do replay the pretty ones where the elites are silhouetted dramatically against a flaming power station or the incredible shot I saw of the black ship re-cloaking after its sweep. It's all about the massive search for those elusive bandits.

"The raiders are known for their stealth, but on Devastis, they cannot hide. Not with millions of the Empire's most elite soldiers sweeping the entire planet. It's only a matter of time before we wipe them out," he intones dramatically over a horrible shot of future Invaders kicking down a door.

"And we're terrified of it," says a voice behind me. I don't think anything of it for a moment, but then I notice everyone else staring at the source of the voice. I turn, and I can feel my eyes get huge.

Standing in the doorway is an Irken — at least I think it's an Irken — with a very large gun pointed at us. It's hard not to notice the gun first, but if the thing hadn't been carrying a weapon, its eyes would have gotten my attention fast. They're not red or purple or even green. They're black, just like the sky. Just like the Irken-creature's clothes. Its boots are covered in some sort of short black fur, and its long coat looks like a dyed, modified technician's cloak. Its shirt is torn, and the rips are patched with a sheer fabric. And its gloves . . . I love its gloves. The cloth of them comes down to where the claw starts on each finger, and the claw is covered by a silver sheath tipped with some kind of clear stone. The thing raises its antennae and I can see that it's male. I'm still not sure whether he's Irken or not, though. If he is, he's probably important. He's tall enough.

"Reveal," he calls, and suddenly, there are five more like him around the perimeter of the room. "No one move," he says, addressing all of us. "We didn't come for you. We came to pick up a few treats and then we'll leave."

"The vending machines are down the hall and to the left," Yall says helpfully.

The one with the huge gun laughs. "We know where to find what we want," he says. "You just stay quiet."

Silence falls. I know we could take them out if we would just try, but cleaning drones just do as told and watch entertainment unless their training chip gets activated. That's part of the reason I know I'm defective. I remember all my basic training regardless of my chip status. I can feel the strangers scanning through our thoughts to see if we pose a threat. The leader is checking me over personally. His eyes are a bit disturbing. He raises a hand over his shoulder and a PAK communicator comes to rest in it. These things _are_ Irken, but . . . how did they get this way?

"Dire to Swarm," he says. The return message light blinks, but I hear nothing. "Excellent," he tells whoever he's talking to. "We have a slight snag here, but we'll be out shortly." He releases the communicator and it disappears back into his PAK.


	3. Prisoner or Guest?

"Team," the leader says, "Find anything useful here?" The other five all shake their heads slightly. He looks down at me. "You," he says, "Outside. Now." I get up slowly and walk toward the door. He steps aside to let me pass, then follows me. Just before he shuts the door behind us, he turns and orders the other strangers to "do what's necessary".

"What do you want with me?" I ask.

"You're a defective," he says, leveling his gun at me. I tense. "Against the wall," he orders. I don't dare disobey, but my mind is racing, looking for an escape.

"I . . .I haven't done anything," I hear myself say. Pathetic.

"No, but you will," he says. "You will or you'll die right here."

"_What?_" I ask. Did he misspeak? In the half-second of silence, I hear terrible noises coming from behind the closed door a few feet away. Laser fire and screaming. Lots of screaming.

"I am the captain of the unnamed black ship that has terrorized the Empire these past two years. I am a defective, as are all the members of my crew. Including you."

"You're asking me to be one of the black-ship raiders?" I ask in shock.

"No, I'm saying that if you refuse my offer of amnesty, you'll suffer the same fate as all the loyal little citizens of the Empire in that room."

As if on cue, the door opens and the other five emerge from the cloud of smoke and steam that now fills the room. They are all splattered liberally with blood, and two of them are carrying bags stuffed with PAKs. The captain notices me staring at them.

"We strip those for parts," he says, "for our own smeets. Now tell me, are you joining us or not?"

"I . . . I'll join," I say. After all, there's not much choice.

"Then come with us," says the captain. We all walk off down the hall, the crew members leading the way and the captain behind me, his gun still pointed at me. I don't blame him.

We arrive in one of the courtyards, where about twenty more of the crew are positioning crates of supplies and watching as a transporter from the ship takes them up. I take the lull as a chance to ask some questions. "So why do you want me, anyway?"

The captain turns his head slightly to look at me. There's a bit of a challenge in his eyes. "You're a defective," he says. "That's enough."

"But why defectives?" I ask. "Wouldn't normal Irkens be better?"

"You know them; do you want to live and work with them?" he asks, watching the crew load another crate.

"No." I understand what he's getting at now.

One of the crew who had been helping load crates comes up to the captain. I'm still not used to their black eyes. I shiver slightly as he looks me over. "That's the last load," he says.

"Let's go," says the captain.

Everyone hurries over to the massive cargo transporter, where the members of the loading crew are already gathering. At a signal from one of the more heavily-cloaked crew members, the transporter activates. Next thing I know, I'm standing in a cargo bay nearly half-filled with crates. The crew disperses rapidly, all running off to their stations, until only the captain, myself, and four others remain. Three of them are heavily armed guards. The captain seems to have borrowed his gun from one of them; they have the same type, and he is no longer carrying one. The fourth, a male a bit shorter than the captain and with the same athletic build (though he has metal flames on his boots and red net sleeves on his shirt), offers an opinion. "That went well."

The captain nods. "Quite well. We need to get out, though. Keep us safe, Mag."

"I will," says Mag, with a friendly salute. He exits the room, no doubt heading for the bridge.

"Now, as for you," says the captain, turning to me, "they'll get you a room for now. Once we're safe out of the Armada's way, you'll have a chance to meet some of the others. Sound good?"

"I suppose," I say.

"What would you rather do?" His antennae twitch upward as he says this. His amused expression is a bit disconcerting, but I figure he can't be as bad as I think. He's not a regular Irken.

"I . . . a room is okay, but . . . could I . . ."

"What?" The sound of his voice makes me look up, into the most encouraging eyes I've ever seen.

"Could I have something to draw on?" I hold my breath, waiting for the tirade.

"Kyo, grab her a tablet and a few tools, would you?" says the captain. One of the guards nods and runs off. I can't really move. It . . . he . . . it's okay. I'm allowed to draw.


	4. Their Story

It's been two hours since they shut me up in here, and I love it. The room itself isn't that great, but it has a window and a big table that adjusts like crazy. The guards said it's _made_ for drawing on. And I have this stack of huge sheets of stuff kinda like cloth they call it "paper" and it's a great surface for the stuff they gave me. There are all different colors of pens, wooden sticks with colored stuff inside ("pencils"), black powdery stuff called "charcoal", and chunks of stuff that rub the pencil and charcoal marks away ("erasers" the one term that makes sense). I'm working on a picture of the captain, since he's the one I remember best and the black stuff is the easiest to use. My skills aren't what they should be; I haven't really drawn since I was a smeet. At least the form taking shape on the paper is recognizably Irken.

Someone knocks on my door, then opens it. I turn to see a female standing in my doorway. She's wearing a black shirt striped with red (what is it with this crew and black?), but it's her eyes that really stand out. One of them is black, like those of her crewmates, and the other is a rich golden color.

"Mag sent me to get you for the meeting," she says. "I'm Des, by the way."

"Okay," I say, getting up from the drawing table. I'm about to leave the room when Des catches me by the arm.

"Whoa, you need to clean up a bit first," she says, bending my arm so I can see the large black smudges on my forearms. "There's cleanser in there," she adds, pointing to a cupboard next to a small ledge with a mirror over it.

I get all the charcoal off myself, then Des leads me through the corridors to the meeting hall, a large circular room with tiers descending toward the center. Each tier has a bench on it, though all but the centermost rows are empty. Dire and Mag are sitting on a bench in the central ring, talking about something. About thirty of the crew surround them on the other benches.

Des takes me down to the center and motions for me to stand in the middle of the circle. She sits down next to Mag, although "next to" is a less accurate description than "entwined with" for their spatial relationship. I wonder why they're like that, and I can't help staring a bit. Now that I look at them, they are phyically different from normal Irkens. They're both very muscular, in a sleek way, though Mag's abdomen is not quite flat and taut like a regular male's. And Des has fangs. I didn't really notice them when I talked with her, but when she smiles at Mag, they're obvious.

Dire gets up and motions for quiet. He has to stand and glare at Mag and Des for a few seconds before they settle down enough to listen. I notice that when Mag sees Dire's expression, his eyes turn slightly green, almost as if he's blushing, except . . . in his eyes. It's freaky.

He turns to me. "Do you know why we brought you on board?"

"I'm a defective," I say. "Just like all the others on this ship."

"Do you wish to stay here?" he asks.

"I don't know yet. I don't know enough about you or what you do here."

Dire nods, as if he's pleased with my answer. "We can tell you more," he says, "but be aware that if you decide not to join, we will have to erase all your memories of us."

"I can deal with that," I tell him.

"Good," Dire says. "I suppose I'll start, since I'm kind of responsible for all this." He spreads his hands to indicate the ship and the crew.

"I was once an Irken Elite Master, in line to become one of the highest-ranking members of the Irken military. I knew how to play the system, and I also knew I wasn't quite normal. Unfortunately, someone else found out, and suddenly I found myself facing a rapidly-appraching EET. I did the only thing I could think of. I stole a blank PAK, copied all of my data into it, and shoved it and some random corpse into a small incinerator. They never thought to question what they found; it made sense that an Elite faced with exposure as a defective would rather die that way than face the horror of having his PAK ripped out.

"I didn't find it easy living in the shadows of a place I had so recently called home, especially with all the security the Empire has, so I escaped and spent a few years as a professional fighter on a remote planet the Empire hasn't bothered with yet. It was there I became known as Dire. Eventually, I gained enough money to purchase a ship, which I used to come back and steal a very valuable bit of information from the Empire. In return for that, I was given this vessel, and we have been building our crew ever since. We now have a large enough population to maintain a colony on a planet known as 9278."

"Because the Empire has 9,278 more planets to invade before they'll even consider that one," says Mag half-jokingly. "Dire left out a couple things," he continues, "like the fact that he also picked up me on that first raid, not just my important discovery."

"What was it?" I ask.

"It has to do with genetics," Mag says, pulling away from Des slightly so he can explain more comfortably. "It's basically a method of creating viruses that force a creature to mutate. See, I was an Elite too, but in a more research-oriented role rather than a blowing-stuff-up oriented job like Dire had. Unfortunately, I had a female commander who was rather tall and had these long, delicate antennae and these incredible purple eyes, and I was scared I would lose control of myself eventually and just . . . pounce on her. That would have gotten me shot, so of course when Dire shows up, demands my discovery, and threatens to kidnap me, I take the excuse to get out of there. On the way to meet up with Dire's contact, we started talking and figued out we were pretty much on the same side, so I signed on with him and we decided to start building a place for defectives where the Empire's rules don't apply." As soon as he's finished, his arm slips around Des's waist again, as if it's drawn there by magnets and he can't resist the pull any longer.

"We run this ship as sort of a flying city," Dire explains. "We have, of course, a large military component, and all crew members must be capable of defending themselves and others. Aside from that, we have just about any type of citizen you can think of. Even smeets, though we try to raise most of them on 9278 for safety. Our major decisons are generally made here, in this room, during open meetings. Those charged with running the ship, the Central Crew, handle most of the everyday matters. There are about eight Centrals on duty now, but most of them have come to welcome you."

"If I choose to join the crew," I remind him.

"We welcome you anyway," says a black-eyed male dressed in a tight black bodysuit.


	5. Names

"Do you have any questions for us?" asks Dire.

"Why doesn't this ship have a name?" It's something that's been bothering me.

"We never thought we needed one," says Mag.

"But how can the mighty tremble at the sound of your name if you don't have a name?" I ask.

"The mighty trembling at our name was not one of our goals," Dire says. "But it's not something we're trying to avoid, either."

"Do you have a name in mind?" asks Des.

"How about the _Haunting_? I mean, as far as the Empire can tell, this _is_ a ghost ship. Its reputation is based on stealth and an uncanny knowledge of Imperial actvities. It's even captained by a dead defective soldier. Besides," I say more slowly, "none of us could go back to life in the Empire any more now than we could if we really were dead."

"Is that your decision, then?" Dire asks, looking at me critically.

I take a deep breath. "It is," I reply. "I have nowhere else to go, and this is just as good as any place I've been. All I ask is that you not require me to mop floors."

"Consider it done," says Dire. He turns to the rest of the Centrals. "Now, who likes the name Per suggested for our ship?" Almost all of the Centrals raise their hands. "Good," Dire says. "We've named our vessel. What about our newest crewmate?" He turns back to me. "Do you still wish to be called Per, or would you like a new name?"

A new name. One that has never been yelled by short little idiots like Fipe, never been used to submit an EET request, never called me back out of my own world to the reality of mop and bucket. One that doesn't tie me to the miserable world of cleaning drones.

"I'm done with the name I have. Give me a new one," I say, looking out at the Centrals.

Silence falls. They're scanning my mind, thinking, considering names.

A female wearing an armored vest breaks the silence. "Lore," she says. "I believe her name should be Lore."

"Explain," says Dire.

"It means a collection of knowledge, stories, meanings, ways of doing things. She is a teller of stories, a creator of images, and one who sees things in a way most of us do not," the female says.

Dire turns to me, his expression questioning.

"It fits," I say.

He places a hand on my shoulder. "Welcome to the _Haunting_, Lore." The Centrals start clapping, and I can feel myself blush.

"Anyone want to show Lore around the ship?" Dire asks as the applause quiets down.

"I will," says the same female who gave me the name.

"Excellent," Dire says. "I believe that's all our business for the moment."

That's apparently the signal for the end of the meeting, because everyone starts to get up and leave. Someone asks Dire a question, and he gets sucked into conversation. I notice Mag and Des do something very odd, almost like biting each other's mouths, when they think no one's watching. I'm really starting to wonder about those two.

"Lore?" I turn, and the female who offered to show me around is standing there. "I'm Blaze," she says. Now that I get to see her more closely, I notice a large, faint, jagged scar that runs down her forehead, along the inside of her left eye, and ends not far above her mouth. Her left antenna droops, and there's a small, odd-shaped patch of purple in the black of her eye where the scar touches it. The vest-like armor she wears appears to be bolted onto her body, and there are several clear panels that reveal wires and tubes full of what looks like blood beneath its surface. I look back up to Blaze's face and realize she's been watching me stare.

"Sorry," I say quietly.

"I don't mind," she says.

"Can I ask how you . . . got this way?"

"A serious accident and some help from Des," she says. "She's a good friend."

"Mind if I ask about her and Mag?" I say.

Blaze rolls her eyes. "They're in love," she says.

"Love?"

"That's right," she says. "You're new to this whole thing. Des and Mag are sexualized. They became life-mates a few months ago, and they found out a few days ago that there is now a smeet developing in Mag's egg sac. It's made them rather giddy."

"So they. . . do things together to make smeets?"

"That's not the whole reason, but yes," Blaze says. "Just don't ask Des about it unless you have a lot of free time. She loves to tell anyone who will listen all about Mag and the cute things he does."

"Thanks for the warning," I say with a bit of a smile.

"Well, let's get going," Blaze says, leading the way toward the same doorway I came in by. "We have a lot of ship to see. By the way," she adds, glancing back at me, "you didn't believe all Dire's crap about how he started this whole thing, did you?"

"He didn't?" I ask.

"He believes he did," says Blaze as we walk out into the hallway. She points left, and we start walking that way down the hall. "He's a bit delusional. Mag is the one who really runs things, but Dire has the charm to get people to follow him. Mag just tells Dire what needs to get done."

"So how much of what he said is true?" I ask.

"Ever heard of Daur?" asks Blaze.

"The one who had everyone convinced he was an Elite Master until they went back and checked his records?"

"And who is now known as Dire," Blaze says. "He really does have leadership skills, but he somehow gets the idea that he's at least partially responsible for anything good that happens around him. If you can deal with him thinking things like, say, that he told you about how ghostly the ship is and that the name should be related to that, you'll almost forget that he's messed up. He's really nice."

"So our captain isn't really sane, our first mate is about to become a father, and we're wanted all over the Empire for attacking Devastis. Anything else important?" I ask.

"Well, we just picked up a huge load of weaponry from a secret storage depot under the surface of Conventia. It was important enough that we had to attack Devastis to get them to drop their guard on it, and now it's all ours. You're the only one left alive who knows we were even there at all."

"I see. So the empire is horribly confused right now," I say with a wry smile. There's an image forming in my mind . . . the Tallest looming over a hologram of Devastis, staring intently at it, while a shadowy black Irken sneaks off behind them with a giant load of weapons. I need to start carrying something with me so I can remember these ideas until I have a chance to draw them.


	6. Life Here

Well, the ship is nice. It has everything a ship should have, plus some fun things Irken military ships don't, like a trampoline room. It seems like that would just be for smeets, but it's pretty popular among the whole crew. Blaze and I spent about half an hour bouncing around in there, until a bunch of half-grown smeets started playing tag. I was okay with it, but Blaze was a bit scared. I asked Des about it when she showed me my new room and she said Blaze is just cautious since . . . whatever happened to her.

Anyway, the relaxation rooms are good, the engines are very up-to-date, and I have a fairly small room with a nice big window, a comfy couch, a drawing table, and a well-stocked cabinet of art supplies. There's even a tablet (a normal computer one, not paper) that I can draw or write on, and it has a carrying case so I can keep it with me. It also plugs into the main computer, which will allow me to do artwork with more flexibility and a larger screen. I _love _this place!

There's a meeting tomorrow morning where the Centrals will introduce me to the whole crew and assign my duties, so that everyone knows who I am and what I do. Des and Dire are coming over soon to ask me a bunch of questions about what I like and give me a skills test so they know what my strengths are. Right now, though, I'm free to do whatever I want. So of course, I'm working on that drawing of the Tallest watching Devastis. I found a few images of them on the ship's network for reference, and I'm working hard on getting them right. The line of Red's brow, the casual way Purple would pucker his lips around his soda straw. It's not easy. I look at my work so far and sigh. Maybe I need to practice on other things first.

When Dire knocks on the door, I'm working on a sketch of a bar of cleanser that I have set on the table in front of me. Its texture makes it interesting, and its rounded shape is a challenge. How do you make something flat look round?

"Come in," I call, and the door opens to reveal Dire and Des. They both sit down on chairs in front of the window, so that I don't have to turn away from my drawing table to look at them.

"Having fun?" Dire asks.

"Working on it," I reply. "It'll be more fun when I figure out how to make my drawings look a bit more real."

"We'll make sure you get the training to do that, then," Dire says.

"All right," Des says, pulling out a computer tablet and opening a file on it, "we have a list of questions for you, so why don't we get started?"

"Okay." I'm a tiny bit distracted by the soap, but I don't think that's going to do any harm.

"First, what's your favorite thing to do?"

"Imagine things, like stories and images."

"If you could do any one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?"

"Make the most beautiful art the galaxy has ever known."

This continues for about ten minutes, with Des asking me questions about everything from what I used to do and why I hated it to my favorite type of entertainment. Then she takes out a box from her bag and sets it on the table.

"This is gonna require some participation, so I need you to come over here," she says.

"What is it?" I ask.

"It's the kit for the skills test," Dire says, opening it. The box contains a pair of VR goggles, some cards, a few blocks of different shapes and colors, and a smaller version of the tablet Des has.

"Okay, you need to follow my directions exactly or the test results will be invalid," Des recites. "Remove the tablet from the box and turn it on. You should see a screen with a set of questions on it. Answer them for me."

This test takes over an hour, during which I have to make shapes with the blocks, navigate a maze in VR, answer about a million questions about math, language, strategy, and economics, put a mixed-up story in order, and determine the common thread connecting several seemingly unrelated objects. Finally, Des tells me I can go back to my drawing while she analyzes the data.


End file.
